CHAPTER II.
REAL AND PLAY.
"And I'll be Lady Fuss-aby, And you shall be Miss Brown."
I woke very early the next morning--for after all it had not been at alllate when I fell asleep. I woke very early, but Tom was awake before me,for when I looked across to his bed, even before I had time to say "Tom,are you awake?" very softly, to which if he was still feeling sleepy hesometimes answered, "No, I'm not"--before I had even time to say that, Isaw that his bright dark eyes were wide open.
There was a night-light on the little table between our cots. Mother hadlet us have it since we were ill. By rights the cot I was sleeping inwas Racey's, for I had a little room to myself, but Tom and I had beenput together because of the measles. I could not have seen Tom's faceexcept for the light, for it was still quite dark outside, justbeginning to get a very little morning.
"Tom," I said softly, "do you know what o'clock it is?"
"Yes," said Tom, "I think it's six. Just as I woke I heard the stairclock striking. I only counted four, but in my sleep I'm sure there hadbeen two."
"Tom," I said again.
"Well," said Tom.
"Tom," I repeated. "I wish you could come into my bed or that I couldget into yours. I do so want to speak to you, and I don't like to speakloud for fear of Pierson hearing." Pierson slept in a little room nextours.
"Pierson's asleep," said Tom. "I heard her snoring a minute ago. Wemustn't get into each other's beds. Mother said we must promise not, forfear of catching cold."
"I know, but it's a pity," I said. "Tom, do you know--oh, Tom, do youknow?"
"What?" said Tom.
"Something so wonderful, I don't know if I should tell you, but motherdidn't say I wasn't to. Tom, what should you say if we were to goaway--a long way away in the railway?"
"I'd say it was vrezy nice," said Tom. "If it was all of us together, ofcourse."
"Ah, but if it wasn't all of us--what would you say then?"
Tom stared at me.
"What do you mean, Audrey?" he said. "We always does go all awaytogether, if we go away at all."
"Oh yes--going to the sea-side and like that. But I mean something quitedifferent from that. Suppose, Tom, that you and me and Racey had to goaway somewhere by ourselves, what would you think of that?"
Tom's dark eyes stared at me more puzzledly than before.
"Audrey," he said, "what _can_ you mean?" He looked quite startled andfrightened. "Audrey," he said, suddenly jumping out of bed, "I must getinto your bed. I'm sure I won't catch cold, and I want to whisper toyou."
I could not help making room for him in my cot, and then we put our armsround each other, and Tom said to me in a very low voice--"Audrey, doyou mean that Racey and you and me are all going to _die_?"
Poor Tom, he looked so pitiful when he said that I was so sorry for him.
"Oh no, Tom dear. Of course I don't mean that. What could have made youthink so?" I said.
"Because unless it was that I don't see how we _could_ go away alone.Papa and mother would never let us. We're too little."
"I didn't mean that we'd really go alone in the railway," I explained,"somebody would go with us--Pierson perhaps, if she wasn't married. Butstill in a way it would be going away alone. Oh Tom, I have felt sofunny all night--as if I _couldn't_ believe it."
Then I told him what I had heard and what mother had told me; and allthe time we held each other tight. We felt so strange--the telling it toTom made it seem more real to me, and poor Tom seemed to feel it wasreal at once. When I left off speaking at last, he stared at me againwith his puzzled-looking eyes, but he didn't seem as if he was going tocry.
"Audrey," he said at last, starting up, "don't you think if we were allto pray to God for papa and mother not to go away that that would be thebest plan?"
I didn't quite know what to say. I knew it was always a good thing topray to God, but yet I didn't feel sure that it would stop papa andmother's going away. I was rather puzzled, but I didn't quite like tosay so to Tom.
"Audrey," he said, jigging me a little, "speak, be quick. Wouldn't thatbe a good plan? Perhaps then a letter would come at breakfast to saythey weren't to go--wouldn't they be pleased?"
"I don't know," I said at last. "I almost think, for some things, papawants to go, and that it's a good thing for him, and if it's a goodthing for him I dare say God wouldn't unsettle it."
"But if it isn't a good thing for _us_?" said Tom, "and it can't be agood thing for _us_--I'm sure God would unsettle it then."
I could not see it like that either.
"I shouldn't like to say it that way," I replied. "Don't you see thatwould be like saying papa would do something that wasn't good for us,and I shouldn't like to say that of papa--not even to God."
Tom lay down on the pillow again and gave a great sigh.
"I don't know what to do then," he said. "I am sure God would find outsome way of making it right, and it's vrezy cross of you not to let meask Him, Audrey. I don't believe you care a bit about them going away,and I know it has begun to break my heart already. When you told mefirst it began to thump so dreadfully fast, and then it gave a crack.I'm sure I felt it crack," and Tom began to cry.
It was dreadful to hear him talk like that. He didn't often cry. Hewasn't a boy that cried for knocks and bumps at all, but just now he wasrather weak with having been ill, and what he said about his heart quitefrightened me. I don't know what I should have done, but just thenPierson opened the door of her room and began scolding us for talking soearly in the morning. We were so afraid of her finding out that we wereboth in one bed, that we lay quite, quite still. Tom proposed to me in awhisper that we should begin to snore a little, but I whispered backthat it would be no use as she had heard us talking just a minutebefore. And after grumbling a little more, Pierson shut the door andretired into her own room. Then Tom put his arms round me again andkissed me--his cross humours never lasted long; not like Racey's, who,though he was generally very good, once he _did_ begin, went on and onand on till one didn't know what to do with him.
"I'm very sorry for calling you cross, Audrey," he said. "Perhaps we'dbetter wait and ask mother about it," and then we both kissed eachother again, and somehow, though we were so very wide awake, all in amoment we went to sleep again and slept a good long while. For Piersontold us afterwards that what Tom had heard striking was only fouro'clock after all.
When we woke again it was _real_ morning--quite bright and sunny. Andmother was standing beside the bedside, and little Racey beside her,looking very smooth and shiny with his clean pinafore and clean face andfreshly brushed hair. Till I looked close at mother's face I could havefancied that all the strange news I had heard the night before had beena dream--it did not seem the least possible that it could be true. Butalas! her face told that it was. Her eyes looked as if she had not beenasleep, and though she was smiling it was a sort of sad smiling thatmade me feel as if I couldn't help crying.
"Children," she said, "didn't you promise me not to get into eachother's beds?"
We both felt rather ashamed.
"Yes, mother," I said, "I know you did, but--"
Tom interrupted me--
"Don't be vexed with Audrey, mother," he said, jumping up and throwinghis arms round her neck, "it was most my fault. Audrey wanted towhisper to me. Oh mother," he went on, hugging mother closer and buryinghis round dark head on her shoulder, "oh mother, Audrey's _told_ me."
Then without another word Tom burst into tears--not loud crying likewhen he was hurt or angry, but deep shaking sobbing as if his poorlittle heart was really breaking. And for a moment or two mother couldnot speak. She could only press him more tightly to her, trying to chokeback the tears that she was afraid of yielding to.
Poor Racey stood staring in fear and bewilderment--his blue eyes quiteready to cry too, once he understood what it was all about. He gave alittle tug to mother's dress at last.
"Muzzie, what's the matter?" he said.
Mother let go her hol
d of Tom and turned to Racey.
"Poor little boy," she said, "he is quite frightened. Audrey, I thoughtyou would have understood I would tell the boys myself."
"Oh, I am so sorry," I exclaimed. "I wish I hadn't. But I did so want tospeak to somebody about it, and Tom was awake--weren't you, Tom?"
"Yes, I was awake," said Tom. "Don't be vexed with Audrey, mother."
Mother didn't look as if she had the heart to be vexed with anybody.
"I daresay it doesn't matter," she said sadly. "But, Audrey, you neednot say anything about it to Racey--it is better for him to find outabout it gradually."
After that day things seemed to hurry on very fast. Almost immediately,papa and mother began to prepare for the great changes that were to be.Our house had a big ticket put up on the gate, and several times ladiesand gentlemen came to look at it. Mother did not like it at all, I couldsee, though of course she was quite nice to the ladies and gentlemen,but the boys and I thought it was rather fun to have strange peoplecoming into the house and looking at all the rooms, and we made newplays about it. I used to be the ladies coming to look, and Tom was thefootman to open the door, and Racey, dressed up with one of my skirts,was mother, and sometimes Pierson, showing the ladies the rooms.Sometimes we pretended they were nice ladies, and then Racey had tosmile and talk very prettily like mother, and sometimes they were crossfussy ladies, and then Racey had to say "No, ma'am"--"I'm sure I can'tsay, ma'am," like Pierson in her grumpiest voice. And one day somethingvery funny--at least long afterwards it turned out to be veryfunny--happened, when we were playing that way. I must tell you about itbefore I go on with the straight part of my story.
It was a wet day and no _real_ ladies had been to see the house, so wethought as we had nothing to do we'd have a good game of pretence ones.Racey had to be Pierson this day (of course Pierson didn't _know_ he wasacting her), and we were doing it very nicely, for a dreadfully fussylady had been only the day before and we had still got her quite in ourheads. I--being the lady, you know--knocked at the nursery cupboarddoor, and when Tom the footman opened it, I stood pretending to lookround the entrance hall.
"Dear me, what a _very_ shabby vestibule," I said. "Not _near_ sohandsome as mine at Victoria Terrace--quite decries the house. Oh, youngman," I went on, pretending to see Tom for the first time, "this houseis to be sold, I hear? Its appearance is not what I'm accustomed to, butI may as well give a look round, as I'm here."
And so I went on, finding fault with the dining-room, drawing-room,&c.--Tom giving very short replies, except when a fit of laughter nearlychoked him, till I was supposed to have reached the first floor wherethe imaginary Pierson took me in charge.
"You don't mean to say this is the _best_ bedroom?" I said, "how _very_small!"
"Yes, ma'am, because you're so very fat. I daresay it _does_ seem smallto you," said Racey.
This brilliant inspiration set Tom and me off laughing so that we couldhardly speak.
"Oh, Racey," I said, returning to my real character for a minute,"Pierson wouldn't really say that."
"She said she'd have _liked_ to say it to that ugly lady yesterday,"said Racey. "I heard her telling Banks so, on the stair." (Banks was thename of the real footman.) "She said, 'I'd like to tell that wat'"(Racey couldn't say "_f_" he always call _fat_, _wat_, and _feet_,_weet_) "'old woman that it's no wonder our rooms isn't big enough for_her_.' And Banks did so laugh."
"Well, go on, Audrey. Perhaps Racey'll think of some more funny things,"said Tom.
So I proceeded with my inspection of the house.
"What very common papers!" I said, looking up at the walls with animaginary eye-glass. "I am always accustomed to a great deal of gold onthe papers. It lightens up so well."
"Yes, mum," replied Racey, rather intoxicated by his success, and nowdrawing wildly on his imagination, "yes, mum, I should think you wasbecustomed to walls that was made of gold all over, and--and--"hesitating how to make his sarcasm biting enough, "and floors made ofdiamonds and pessus stones, and--"
"Racey, hush," said Tom, "you're talking out of the Bible. Isn't he,Audrey?"
I was not quite prepared to give an opinion.
"Pierson doesn't talk like that, any way," I said, without committingmyself. "Let's go on about there not being enough rooms for theservants. She did say that."
"And about her pet dogs," suggested Tom.
"Oh yes," I said, in the affected squeaky voice which we imagined to bean exact copy of the way of speaking of the lady who had taken such ahold on our fancy, "oh dear yes--I _must_ have a very good room for mydear dogs. They are never allowed to sleep in a room without a fire, andI am so afraid this chimney smokes."
"No, mum, it's _me_ that smokes, mum, not the chimney, mum. Sometimes Ihave a cigar, mum, in my room, mum, and a room that's good enough for memust be good enough for your dogs, mum," said Tom, the imaginary Banks.
We all three shouted with laughter at his wit, though poor Banks, themost modest of young men, whose only peculiarity was that in hisnervousness he used to say "ma'am" or "sir" with every two words, wouldhave been horrified if he had known how Tom was caricaturing him. Wewere still laughing when the door opened suddenly and mother with some_real_ ladies, to whom she was showing the house, came in.
There were two ladies--a not very particular one, just rather nice, butwe didn't notice her very much, and a much younger one whom we noticedin a minute. It was partly I think because of her pretty hair, which wasthat bright goldy kind that looks as if the sun was always shining onit. Mine is a _little_ like that, but not so bright as aun--oh, Iforgot; you wouldn't understand. And her hair showed more because of herbeing all dressed in black--regular black because of somebody belongingto her being dead I mean. She came last into the room, of course thatwas right because she was youngest, and mother came in first to open thedoor like--I can remember quite well the way they all stood for aminute.
"This is the nursery, I see," said the nothing particular lady. "Well,with me it would not be that, as I have no children. But it would make anice morning-room--it must be a bright room on a sunny day."
"Yes," said mother, "that is why we chose it for a nursery. It is a pityfor you to see the house on such a dull day--it is such a bright housegenerally--we have liked it very much."
Mother spoke sadly--I knew the tone of her voice quite well. We allthree had of course stopped playing and stood round listening to whatwas said. We must have looked rather funny--Racey with a skirt of mineand a white apron of Pierson's, Tom with a towel tied round him to looklike Banks in the pantry, and I with an old shawl and a bonnet very muchon one side, with a long feather, which we had got out of our"dressing-up" things. We were so interested in listening to mother andin looking at the ladies, particularly the golden-haired one, that wequite forgot what queer figures we were, till the young lady turnedtowards us.
"These are your little children," she said, with a smile--a rather sadsmile--to mother. "They are playing at dressing-up, I see."
"We're playing at ladies coming to see the house," I said, comingforward--I never was a shy child--"There have been such a lot ofladies."
Mother turned to the young lady.
"It is perhaps well that they should be able to make a play of it," shesaid.
"Yes," said the young lady very gently, "I remember being just the sameas a child, when once my mother had to go away--to India it was--I wasso pleased to see her new trunks and to watch all the packing. Andnow--how strange it seems that I could have endured the idea of hergoing--now that I shall never have her again!"
Her lip quivered, and she turned away. Mother spoke to her very, verykindly--the other lady, the nothing particular one was examining thecupboards in the room and did not notice.
"Have you lost your dear mother?" she--our mother, I mean--asked theyoung lady.
She could not speak for a moment. She just bowed her head. Then touchingher dress she said in a sort of whisper, "Yes; quite lately. She died inLondon a fortnight ago. I have neither fathe
r nor mother now. I amstaying for a while with my cousin."
Then, partly I think to hide the tears which would not be kept back,partly to help herself to grow calm again, she drew me to her andstroked my long hair which hung down my back below my queer bonnet.
"What is your name, dear?" she said.
"Audrey," I replied. "Audrey Mildred Gower is my long name," I added.
"'Audrey' is a very pretty name," said the young lady, still stroking myhair, "and Gower--that is not a very common name. Are you perhapsrelations of Dr. Gower, of ---- Street?"
"That's Uncle Geoff," cried the boys and I.
"He is my husband's brother," said mother.
The young lady quite brightened up.
"Oh, how curious!" she said. "Dr. Gower was _so_ kind to my mother," andagain her pretty eyes filled with tears and her lips quivered.
Racey, staring at her, saw that something was the matter, though he hadnot the least idea what. He came close up to her, stumbling over hisskirt and long apron on the way, and tugged her sleeve to catch herattention.
"Don't cry," he said abruptly. "We're going to live with Uncle Geoff.Perhaps he'd let you come too."
The young lady could not help smiling.
"Are they really going to live in London?" she said to mother. "PerhapsI shall see you again then some day. I know 'Uncle Geoff's' house verywell."
But before there was time to say any more the other lady came back fromher inspection, and began asking so many things about the house that theyoung lady's attention was quite taken up. And soon after they wentaway. Afterwards I remember mother said she was sorry she had not askedthe young lady's name. But we among ourselves fixed to call her "MissGoldy-hair."